


lays her halo on the pillow

by supernatasha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/F, Femslash, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatasha/pseuds/supernatasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five things about Molly Hooper that Sally is delighted to discover.<br/>(and one thing about Sally Donovan that Molly finds she can't live without.)</p><p>Including dead bodies, rock concerts, Mickey Maguire, handcuffs, owl comparisons, citrusy perfumes (or maybe floral), cold lunch, Toby the cat, good morning arguments, sex at dinner parties, and a hierarchy of smiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lays her halo on the pillow

The quiet brunette at the morgue has two things that interest Sally very very much: a dead body and a sharp wit. She also does not have one thing that Sally notes right away: a ring on her finger. Which, of course, doesn't mean anything at all, but Sally still chooses to think it does.

They both lean over the dissected body and Molly murmurs, "See the way the pericardial cavity is caved in like that? He could've had a completely treatable disorder from a lack of serous fluid."

"Hm, yeah," Sally agrees, not really sure what she was looking at. Cadavers had never been her area of expertise and almost certainly not her interest. The only reason she can stand being around the nauseating smell of preserving fluid and antibiotic is that Molly smells _good._ Like something citrusy. Or maybe it's floral. She's never been good with perfumes either.

"Would you like to see the toxicology reports, Sergeant?" Molly asks.

Sally nods. "Can I get a copy of it to take back?"

"I'm not actually allowed to make copies of autopsy reports that are still ongoing investigations unless I ask my boss." Molly hesitates for a moment, then quickly adds, "You can check it out for a few hours, as long as you bring it back before my shift is over."

Grinning and without a single moment to think, Sally blurts, "Are you a toxicology report? Because I'm definitely checking you out."

There's a long pause.

Her smile dies. Sally can feel her face burning red, mentally berating herself for saying something so silly, so ridiculous. She just about cringes thinking of Molly's reaction.

To her surprise, Molly giggles. Just a little sound, but it lights up all the way to her eyes. Molly bites her lower lip and, her voice still breathless from the laughing, replies, "Are you checking me out from space? Because your arse is out of this world!"

Sally isn't sure if the sound of her mouth dropping open is audible, but it's certainly visible. She blinks twice and manages to stammer out, "D-Did you just. Did you."

"Reply to a pick-up line with another one?" Molly giggles again. "Absolutely, and from what I can tell, I've left you a bit tongue tied."

Picking her jaw up off the floor, Sally makes a serious face (or as serious it could be considering the circumstances) and says, "Oh, I definitely have more where that came from. I hope you know what you're getting into."

"I can tell you what I'd _like_ to be getting into: your pants."

"Does Heaven know they're missing an angel?" Sally retorts.

Molly seems to get her game face on. "I didn't actually leave Heaven. I fell for you."

Sally bites her tongue to keep from laughing at the perfect response, and instead answers, "Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?"

"D'you know what this labcoat is made of? Girlfriend material," Molly counters.

"It better be made of something flame resistant because you are so hot, it might catch on fire."

"I hope you know CPR, Sergeant Sally Donovan, because you're taking my breath away."

Sally opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her brain has gone completely blank. Hearing her name rolling off Molly's tongue like that, like a challenge and a compliment rolled into one, turns her on something fierce. It takes a solid minute to comprehend. Molly's face is poised, her eyes crinkling with delight but lips pursed, waiting for the next line. Sally inhales sharply and her words come out in a jumble, "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met."

Brows furrowed, Molly mumbles, "That's not a- I mean-"

"Do you want to go for a drink?" Sally asks, then quickly adds, "I mean, after your shift or whatever."

When Molly hesitates, Sally's stomach sinks down to her toes. Already internally scolding herself, Sally's surprised when Molly quips, "Only if you promise to give me your number."

::

The really lovely thing about Molly that Sally discovers is that she's _nice_. Actually genuinely let-you-have-the-last-chip nice. Nice enough to warm a freezing night in the dead of January just by walking into the room and offering one of her smiles. She never pretends, she doesn't hold grudges, and she is nice just for the sake of being nice. What kind of person actually does that?

Sally has never met another person like her.

On their first date, they go dutch and split the expense, but afterwards they get pastries and Molly insists on paying. Their second date is at a concert. A _rock_ concert. Molly gets there an hour before to save them spots at the front of the venue. She looks strangely out of a place in a leather jacket and eyeliner, but god, she looks stunning.

There really is something about a girl that looks just as good in a leather jacket as she does in a lab coat.

After, when Sally walks her home, a wind picks up and she shivers in the sudden drop in temperature. Molly offers her the jacket and, though Sally politely declines a few times, Molly insists.

"Otherwise you'll freeze by the time you get to your flat."

"Thanks," Sally finally takes it and wraps it around herself. It smells like her, like that citrus or floral or whatever. "I appreciate it."

"No problem. Just give it back to me on our next date."

Sally's heart soars up to the stratosphere.

The third date is ice cream. When they get back to Sally's flat, Molly throws her jacket in the general direction of her closet and kisses her – _hard._ She tastes like vanilla and longing and desire, and she's nothing like the shy woman Sally met a few days ago.

With an edge to her hoarse voice, Molly commands, "Strip."

She finds herself obliging willingly, unzipping her trousers and stumbling over her own heels.

When she looks back up, Molly has handcuffs.

_Handcuffs._

"Is this okay?" Molly asks, eyes dark. "Just one hand."

It takes Sally barely three seconds before she nods and holds her left hand out. Molly's skin is soft and the metal is cold when the cuff closes around her wrist, the other around the bedpost.

"Safeword?"

Sally considers, lust clouding her judgment. She blurts the first thing in her head, "Quidditch."

She only nods and kicks off her shoes. The rest of Molly's disrobing is painfully slow, nearly a tease. The dress has buttons down the front, and each button undone leaves Sally blinking in anticipation. Molly takes her time, knowing the effect it has and savoring it.

Once they've gotten rid of pesky things like clothes, Molly becomes all teeth and edges, running her nails over the sensitive skin of Sally's throat and the undersides of her elbows, lips warm on her sternum, tongue tracing a path down the undersides of her breasts. Her fingers are firm, nearly rough, as they find the place between Sally's legs wet.

Her touch is magical. The cuffs rankle against the post with every movement. Sally comes twice, back arching, right hand clenching into a fist as it grasps at cotton sheets, her moans swallowed by Molly's mouth when she comes back up to kiss her.

Molly is nice, of course, but she's not nice in bed.

Sally couldn't have been happier about it.

 

::

She wears glasses _._ Thick frames, tortoise shell, hanging off a silver chain.

A _chain._

In all of the surprising turn of events Sally could have imagined, she has never once conceived that Molly's glasses would be on a chain. When she runs into the flat (she has her own key!), already breathless and screaming that she was in the talks for a promotion to Detective, she stops dead in her tracks and stares.

"Um, why are you wearing glasses like my gran does?"

"I- uh. I'm a little near-sighted- um, you know, myopia and. Well, I-I can't wear contacts," Molly stammers out.

"On a chain?"

"I-I lo… er, lose them."

Sally nods slowly. "Well, they suit you."

"Do they?" Molly looks relieved. "See, when I went to pick them out, I was going to get wire rimmed glasses, or maybe something with rhinestones, or maybe that Buddy Holly style that's been pretty famous. But then I didn't want something too light, or too flashy. And anyway, it was on a budget. So I picked these. What do you think?"

Sally blurts, "I think I love you."

This time, Molly is the one who's slow to reply. "Oh, just think?"

"No, no. Actually love you. I love you."

"Oh, good. I love you, too."

She's a little astonished by her own confession, but even more so by how easily Molly returns it. But the most astonishing thing is that Sally really _really_ likes the glasses. They make Molly look like an owl, or maybe a cat, or just a very adorable person with her eyes magnified by the lens and her ears sticking a bit out with her hair up in a ponytail.

Okay, definitely an owl.

Sally moves forward a few steps and takes the frames from their perch on Molly's small slightly upturned nose, gently sets them on Molly's jumper, and touches her lips lightly to hers almost reverently. As expected, Molly opens her mouth and presses closer, hands on Sally's arse to bring them together.

They make it to the bed just in time as the last of their clothes hits the floor.

Yes, yes she loves her glasses, and she loves her meek-on-the-outside-bossy-in-bed personality, and she loves that Molly doesn't even blink when she's surrounded by dead bodies, and she loves her _,_ just _her._

It only takes a pair of glasses to convince her.

::

Molly has a weakness for trash telly.

She loves _the Only Way is Essex,_ she catches up on _EastEnders_ when it's a slow day at the morgue, she can name every contestant on _Big Brother._

And of course, Molly knows every detail about every single _Shameless_ character and will tell Sally about James McAvoy being in the first two seasons (and the Christmas Specials!) whenever appropriate. Or not appropriate. More than once, with the rosy flush of wine on her cheeks, she has launched into long-winded and slightly above rambling lectures on how the Karibs represent the real meaning of diversity, why Lillian is actually the most important person on the show, the beauty of the Maguires – her favorite inexplicably being Mickey, though Karen's death always brings a tear to her eye, a hitch in her voice.

The first time Molly mentions watching _Jeremy Kyle_ , Sally waits for the punchline, the inevitable joke to follow. Molly doesn't offer anything, not a "Kidding," or an "As if I would." It dawns on Sally that she's being serious.

"You mean someone actually watches it sincerely?" Sally asks. "Not just, you know, _whoops, accidentally wandered onto ITV while it was on, might as well mute it and make myself a cup of tea._ Actually sitting down proper and watching?"

"Well," Molly hesitates and she has the tiniest hint of a frown between her eyebrows. "Toby and I actually do watch it."

More than anything else, Sally finds it adorable. The image of Molly and Toby curled up on the loveseat and watching bleeped out profanity and censored raised middle fingers is endearing.

Sally reaches forward and kisses her until she's sure the hesitation is gone, until she's sure the frown will have melted away. When they part, Sally asks, "May I join you and Toby for a wonderful evening of take away and telly?"

And Molly nods, "I'd like that very much."

It's a date.

Sally loves it.

They watch the Eurovision final together, getting progressively more drunk as it goes on and ending the night sprawled on the sofa in a tangled heap of limbs, unable to distinguish which end of the duvet belongs over their bodies, unwilling to quite care, Molly's glasses askew on her face, Toby finding a spot between their hips to preen himself.

When they wake in the morning, too hot and sticky with sweat under the duvet, extremities hanging off the sofa, the telly's still on and Sally's hair is a mess of frizz and curls. Both are in a state of hangover exhaustion, the first of their headaches kicking in. They argue over who would get up to plug the kettle in, then they argue over who gets to shower first, then about whether Denmark deserved to win, then a complaint from Sally that Molly's duvet was too thick, then—

Then Molly blurts out, "Why don't you move your things in?"

Sally's mouth _nearly_ drops open, but she prides herself that she only raises her eyebrows. She opens her mouth, and the telly's loud and bright out of the corner of her eye, but moving in with Molly means trash telly all the time, and it means glasses on a silver chain, and it means her warm body pressed close at night when they're sleeping.

"Yeah, alright," Sally finds herself saying, a sheepish smile spreading over her face. "I'll bring some stuff over when my shift's done."

Molly beams and agrees to put on the kettle.

They end up solving another of their problems by showering together.

::

Molly is in the habit of turning Sally on at the most inconvenient of times.

The first time, Sally drops by the morgue for lunch with pulled pork sandwiches and coffee. Molly presses her up against the wall beside a rack of petri dishes. They spend entirely too long kissing, though there is no such thing as too long when it comes to kissing. As hungry as she is, she ignores the food in favor of Molly's lips.

By the time they get to eating, she has five minutes left and a cold lunch.

She goes back to the Met frustrated and distracted, already making plans of getting Molly back later that night (and knowing it won't work because she melts like slush in her hands).

Caring very little for where they are, Sally occasionally finds Molly intentionally leaving her mark – a touch on the insides of her elbows (a sensitive spot for sure) when she visits Sally at work, rubbing small circles on her back at a restaurant, teasing her with kisses just before she gets into the cab.

At first, Sally figures Molly doesn't quite know the maddening effect she has on her, that her intentions are noble. But of course she knows the effect, and of course her intentions are anything but.

They go to Greg's house for a dinner party. Well, Lestrade had disguised it as a dinner party, but Sally was certain he had an ulterior purpose (inviting Mycroft Holmes _and_ wearing what was almost certainly his best blazer could notbe a coincidence).

Mycroft sits across from Sally, and she's pleased to learn he's much nicer than his brother.

"Hello, Inspector Donovan," Mycroft says, and Sally realizes there is a tickling at her knees. Her eyes flick to the side and Molly's face is perfectly still, a bite of lamb almost to her mouth with one hand. The other hand moves up her leg.

Sally licks her lips and replies in a steady voice, "Hello, Mr. Holmes. Pleasure to meet you."

"I heard of your recent promotion. Congratulations."

Sally struggles to keep her breathing calm, her teeth from grinding together. Molly's hand is at her thigh, under Sally's dress, when she adds, "It's nice to see you again, Mycroft."

Mycroft nods back and Sally isn't sure what's driving her crazy: the fact that Molly and Mycroft already know each other, or Molly's fingers dancing over her flesh. Then Molly's at the hem of her underwear and she knows exactly what's driving her crazy.

Greg starts up a conversation with Mycroft about petrol prices and Sally promptly tunes them out. Her wrists tremble with the effort to keep herself under control, even though her pulse has quickened and her eyes are threatening to roll back in her head.

Joining in the conversation, Molly mentions something about conflict in the Middle East and Mycroft comments back with a blur on alternative energy, and Greg's voice is talking but all Sally hears is, inexplicably, the pleasure of the touch like a physical sound in the air.

It takes Molly exactly five more seconds until Sally gasps out loud.

The conversation at the table cuts short. All eyes fix on her, including Molly with a smirk.

Throwing down her napkin, Sally mumbles, "Excuse me," and bolts from the table in the direction of the bathroom. It takes Molly nearly another whole minute before she joins her in the hallway.

Sally pulls her into Greg's bathroom and locks the door behind them.

A few minutes later, when they join the men at the table again, they're deep in discussion about politics in South America and Sally thinks they've escaped notice. Of course Mycroft does turn to give her a surprisingly amused wink and Sally finds herself blushing, smiling through the heat on her skin.

Dinner isn't the least bit awkward and Greg shoos them home instantly after coffee.

Sally isn't the only one getting laid that night.

::

The thing about Sally is that her smile makes everything better.

It's not just a smile on her lips, see. It's her whole being that lights up. When she's happy, her smile takes up about half of her face, and everything gets involved. Crinkles around her eyes, cheeks lifting, all pearly whites as a giggle she couldn't keep in finally escapes.

If there was ever a color to describe it, her voice is _golden._ It glitters and it sparkles, and when they're talking to each other in bed in the dark, it shines. Molly can tell she's smiling because nothing else is in all the night sky is as bright as her smile. The sun pales in comparison.

Molly has a hierarchy of favorite smiles; more than once she's counted the list out in her head.

The first favorite smile is the one where Sally's hopeful, the one where she raises her eyebrows and licks her lips, the one where she anticipates. It had shown up when Sally had scribbled her number on a piece of paper on their first date (Molly always counts the morgue as a date; Sally always claimed their first date was dinner and pastries). It shows up when Sally watches a waiter bring their food to the table, when Molly cuffs Sally's wrist to her bedpost, when Sally has a good day at work and she's caught up on paperwork.

The second favorite one is the one Sally doesn’t notice. It's the one Molly had fallen in love with. Sally would never be aware her emotions had spread to her face and her lips would curve up the tiniest bit. Molly's favorite thing about it is that it gives her a glimpse of her inner thoughts. This little smile was always there when Sally watched Toby play, or when she was cooking in the kitchen, or listening to her favorite song. It's all there and never pretention about it. It belongs.

The third one is the bedroom smile. Lazy and just bordering on arrogant, it fills Sally's face as she lays back, her hair a halo of frizz on the pillow. It's a dangerous one, it's the one where Sally knows she's got something Molly wants. It's inviting; it's challenging. It's the one where, even with her hands tied behind her back, Molly knows Sally is the one in control. It's the one that sends a stirring down Molly's belly, a thrill down her spine. It's reserved just for her, and she's the only one who ever needs it.

And of course, the one at the top of the list is always the smile Molly causes. And it's always different.

It's the one Sally flashes with every kiss, every mug of tea, every comforting touch. The one that spreads on her lips when Molly calls her "Detective Donovan," when they pick out the same drapes on their first try, when Molly tells her she loves her. The post-coital smile. The "I'm so sorry I washed your lab coat with my red shirt, it's pink now, you forgive me" smile. The smile through her thick lensed glasses.

It was, of course, the one that Sally had given her when she'd said yes.

Now Molly cranes her neck, glancing impatiently to see where Sally is. All she sees are faces that aren't her, smiles that don't belong to her. She returns to the flowers in her grip; one lily already has drooping petals from where Molly had kept picking at it.

A hush falls over the crowd and Molly looks up again. There she is. Her heart skips a beat, then another, then Molly worries she's going to fall over dead on her wedding day because it cannot be possible to be happier.

Walking down the aisle with her own bouquet of lilies in hand, as pristine as though they've just been picked from the garden. The long train of her wedding gown trails behind her, and behind her veil is a new smile that has just become Molly Hooper's favorite smile of all.

Sally stops before her and lifts her veil, murmurs lightly, "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met."

Her eyes film with tears as she recognizes the compliment.

The pastor begins reciting, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

She realizes Sally's eyes are wet too, and for a moment, she's tempted to reach out and brush her tears away. But of course, even through the tears, she's still smiling.

Sally's smile always makes everything better.

A lifetime of smiles, that's all she wants.

**Author's Note:**

> Never enough Sally/Molly.  
> Disclosure: I'm not from England, apologies if I get any terms/phrases wrong. I am, however, a pretty massive fan of Shameless.


End file.
